Tax Debt Solution Ch. 01

AUTHORS NOTE: This is a work of fiction, containing scenes of marital infidelity and unprotected sex.

If any of these subjects offend you, please feel free to move on to another story more to your liking.

*

Marci Cole had just finished dressing when she heard the doorbell. She hadn't dried her hair, or put on makeup, having just gotten out of the shower. She rubbed a towel across her head as she approached the front door, wondering who it could be. She peeked out through the side window before unlocking the door. The man on the stoop was neatly dressed for business, with a tie and jacket, and held a briefcase. Seen through the beveled glass, she couldn't get a good look. Tall. Brown hair.

She wasn't worried about safety. She had training, both in self defense and in use of the firearms hidden nearby. She was a confident, assertive woman who could handle herself and others. This guy, like anyone coming to Marci Cole's door, was either harmless or not. She turned the lock, and opened the door, one hand still drying her hair with the towel.

"Yes? Can I help you?" she asked as she opened the door, taking an unobstructed look. Tall, yes; brown hair neatly trimmed. Clean shaven, well dressed, and handsome. Not movie star gorgeous, just regular guy handsome. He filled his clothes well, good shoulders, not thick through his middle yet, probably middle thirties, a little younger than her. He held a briefcase in one hand, and smiled politely when she opened the door.

"Ms. Marci Cole?"

"Who is asking?"

He reached into his inside jacket pocket as he answered. "My name is Josh Logan," he said, removing an ID card and showing it to her. "I'm with the IRS. Are you Marci Cole?"

"Yes, I am." She was curious now, and a little apprehensive. Bob, her husband, had taken the tax papers to his office with him. Was this about their taxes? "What is this about?"

"May I come in, Ms. Cole? I'd rather not do this on the front steps."

She hesitated a second, then stepped back. "Yes, of course, come in. Is there a problem?" She waited for him to step inside, then closed the door behind them. "Why are you here?" She waved him into the kitchen, and directed him to a chair at the table. She went to the counter. "The coffee is fresh, would you like one?"

"Yes, that'd be great, thanks," he said, settling into his chair. He pulled a folder out of his briefcase, placed it on the table, and set the case on the floor next to his chair. Marci brought the two cups to the table and set his down in front of him. She stepped back to the counter, and returned with milk, sweeteners and spoons.

"Thank you," he smiled.

"No problem," she replied. "So tell me, Mr. Logan, why are you here in my house drinking my coffee?" She felt a little intruded on, a little put out. Her morning had been interrupted, her privacy imposed upon, and while he seemed nice, she had no clue as to why he was here.

He sipped his coffee, then spoke as he put it down. "Ms. Cole, I..."

"Marci."

I'm sorry?"

"It's Marci."

"Alright, Marci. It's Josh." He extended his hand over the corner of the table, and they shook. He smiled again. "Marci, your husband recently submitted a return for your taxes."

"Yes." Apprehension. But not fear. She kept the records and sent her husband to his brother to get them done. They'd been doing that for years. "Is there something I should know?"

"As a matter of fact, there is. I was working with your brother in law, who does your taxes, your husband's brother. Nice guy."

"Bob?"

"Your husband? Well, sure, he was a nice guy, I guess, but I was referring to his brother Dave, who does your taxes."

"Yes, Dave is a good person." She chuckled good-naturedly, "I hope he's a good accountant!"

"Yeah," Josh replied, "he's not bad. Pretty steady, honest enough. Looks out for his clients. I was functioning as an observer in this new program we have at the IRS, spend a few days at a time with different accountants and their clients, etc." He motioned with his hand, flippantly. "You know, get a feel for what Joe Citizen feels at tax time, and all."

"And you're here to get my point of view?"

"I wish it were that simple, Marci. You see, while Dave was doing your taxes with your husband, and as I said, Dave it a pretty straight shooter, he wouldn't do something crooked, I don't think," He rested his elbows on the table and leaned forwards to her, "but he didn't catch a major error in your reported income."

"What?"

"Like I said," he calmly replied, "I was observing, so I don't critique, and I don't report on accuracy back to my office." He looked her directly in the eyes, then, and motioned to her for emphasis. "But what he overlooked could get you and your husband into some deep trouble."

Marci didn't know whether to be terrified, shocked or outraged. Was this guy accusing her of something? Had she done something? Did they owe money? Would there be fines? Charges filed? Could they lose the house? "I, ... I don't ... what? What are you telling me?"

"Now, Marci, calm down. It's all right. I didn't mention it to your husband or Dave, and after the meeting in Bob's -- it's Bob, right? -- in his office, I made an excuse to get away from Dave so I could look into it and verify what I thought I saw."

"Are you going to tell me-"

"Marci, in the office, Dave asked Bob if you had given him all the records. They were clear from their conversation that you keep all the tax records for you and your husband. Is that true?"

"Yes, yes, of course it's true, now look here, Mr. Josh, sorry, Mr. Logan, What is it you think-"

"I figured as much. Ms. Cole." He sat back in his chair and sighed. "Ms. Cole, you and your husband have under-reported your income for at least four years."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I checked. I told Dave I needed a copy of your return to prove at least one meeting I attended. I verified the information. I logged into the IRS and checked your past returns." He sat forward again. "You have under-reported your taxable income by thousands of dollars, for several years." He took a paper from the folder. A column of numbers totaled at the bottom. "In back taxes and fees, you owe the IRS over twenty thousand dollars."

Marci was dumbstruck. She was an intelligent, competent woman. Attentive. She was no half-assed dimwit. How could this have happened? How could she have made such an error? What would Bob ..."

"Bob!" she stammered. "What did Bob say?"

"Ms. Cole, as I said, I have not mentioned this to either Bob or Dave. They said you were the one keeping the records, which you confirmed. I wanted to talk to you first."

"We don't have twenty thousand dollars," she blurted. "We ... we..."

"Ms. Cole, the IRS will accept payments over time. That's not the issue. The issue is how will you and your husband make those payments from jail?"

"Jail!" She felt herself go pale, and a flush of panic gripped her. My God, what will Bob think of her? "Jail?"

"The IRS takes a dim view of people who avoid their taxes, Ms. Cole. Failure to pay is one thing. Evading is something else."

"Oh, my God, I can't go to jail."

"Probably you wouldn't."

"Oh, thank God."

"Bob would."

"What?"

"It's his name on the returns, Ms. Cole. You sign as spouse. He signs as the taxpayer. He goes."

"But," she spluttered, "but it's my fault, if there's something wrong, I, I ... I keep the records, I tell him ... he didn't do anything!" She felt herself losing control. And if there was one thing Marci Cole always had, it was control. "If there's a problem, it's my fault. Bob can't go to jail." She had a horrible thought. "Oh!" she shrank back into her chair. "Are you going to arrest me?"

Josh Logan looked at her, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I'm sure that won't be necessary." He squinted a little, and looked at her, deeply. "Perhaps I can help you avoid any legal issues, and, more importantly, help you to avoid Bob getting into serious trouble." She imagined seeing the disappointment in Bob's eyes, and she felt the devastation at letting him down, the desperation of losing control. He reached across the table and took her hand between his. "Perhaps all this ugliness can be avoided. Bob doesn't have to find out what your carelessness has caused." In her fear and uncertainty, she allowed him to stroke the back of her hand reassuringly.

"In fact," he continued, "Bob need never know that there is a problem." She was confused, afraid and frightened; his reassuring tone began soothing her agitation. He raised a hand to her chin, and raised her face so her eyes met his. He smiled comfortably. "I know that you're nervous. But I can see that you would do whatever it takes to help your husband and make this right." She felt herself smiling back through her fear. She allowed herself to imagine that everything would be all right, no debt. No jail. No disappointment. No shame.

"R-really? How..."

Josh let go of her hand and stood from his chair, standing only a foot or two from where she sat. Numb with fear, she found herself facing his crotch, and noticing what appeared to be an extraordinary bulge in the front of his pants before she looked up and met his eyes again.

"And you'd like to know how you can undo the damage, easily, with no one knowing what a horrible mistake you've made."

"Yes," she blurted, almost desperately. "Yes, please, can you help me fix this?"

"I believe I can," he said softly and confidently.

"Really?" Marci looked up at him, desperate for a way out. Anything not to have to face the idea of her husband thinking she had sabotaged them.

"Yes. It can be simple, actually." He bent to her, took her hands in his. "All you have to do is have sex with me." He pulled her hands to him and pressed them against his crotch.

Marci thought she was hearing things, but his demand for sex finally cut through her fog of grief and despair. At the same time her hands registered what they were feeling: the extraordinary bulge she had seen was real. Her eyes dropped to his pants where her hands pressed the fabric, exposing the outline of a massive tool. Her breath caught in her throat for a moment, until her situation came back to her. She pulled her hands away, flustered. She realized she was staring and struggled to look up into his face.

"Have... have sex with you," she managed. Her eyes met his, but she couldn't hold the gaze, found her eyes drifting back to the bulge facing her. "Sex. Sex, or Bob, ... um ... goes to jail." She forced her view back up, saw him smiling slightly.

"Yes, Ms. Cole. It's unusual, I know. It's a difficult decision. And you are hesitant, I'm sure, to have sex with another man," he replied, "but could it as bad as sending your husband to jail? For your mistake? A difficult decision for sure. But I'll need your decision quickly."

"I, uh-m," she struggled, but couldn't seem to form the words. Sex with ... If Bob went jail for her mistake ... how could she face him ... twenty thousand ... sex with this man, Josh ... Bob's shame and embarrassment ... sex with another man? This morning she'd woke up like every other morning, confident, competent and in control. She was in charge of her destiny. She had a regular, normal life. Now ... have sex with a man to keep Bob out of jail? She found her gaze had returned to the front of his pants as her mind struggled. She saw it inside there. So big. Distracting. Sex? Cheat on Bob? Or Bob in jail? She tried to look away, to look up or down. "I," she mumbled, "I can't -- uh-m ... decide," she finished.

"Perhaps you need help making your decision. Think about Bob, your husband, in jail for something you did." He reached for the zipper on his pants. "Imagine it. See him in your mind, hold that picture. Bob in jail." She watched him pull down his zipper. "See if you can hold that image in your head while I pull this out." She watched his hand slip inside. "But let me tell you something, Ms. Cole. Let me tell you a few things that I know for certain."

"First, once I take this out, I'm not putting it back. You understand? Second, once you see it, you're going to want it. Bad. Third, once you get it, you're going to need more of it." His voice lowered then. "And then if you get it more, you're going to love it, to crave it. To live for it." She watched his fingers move, grip, saw the bulk inside his pants shift. "It's decision time, Ms. Cole. Your husband in jail. Or this."

And he pulled it out, right in front of her face.

It was magnificent.

Not just big. Not just beautiful. This was a giant, perfect appendage, a gorgeous seductive monster cock. She felt her mouth hang open, and heard herself making small mewling sounds as she was overwhelmed with adoration of this vision, this dream cock, the stuff of sexual obsession and nightmare. About half hard, it was easily eight inches, and looked to be as fat around as her wrist, at least. "Oh, my sweet ...," she whispered, mesmerized. "Fuck," she gasped as she watched it grow and harden, fighting against it's own weight to stand straight, ten at least now, the velvety purple head threatening menace and glory, the smooth veined shaft promising painful stretching, punishment and ecstasy.

She would fuck this cock.

She had to have it, had to experience this giant. There were suddenly no tax bills, no jail, no Bob. There was no control, no carefully crafted and proper life. Just this legendary cock that would turn her pussy into a gaping bruised cunt. She imagined it in her mouth, stretching her lips around it, fantasized the huge head pushing into her throat, gagging her, orgasming as she choked on the greatest cock in the world. She reached to it unconsciously, wrapping her hand around the base, not surprised to see her fingers didn't reach, and she felt her pussy drench itself in anticipation. No, she thought, a pussy is for dicks, this beast of a cock deserves my cunt, to stretch me, split me open, pound my cervix. No mercy. Beat my cunt until it screams, leave me bruised and sore, ruined for all dicks but this one.

She never had thought like this. Sex with Bob was good, satisfying. It was regular, with regular frequency, and a normal amount of adventure, she thought. Maybe a little extra effort when she'd had a few drinks. Her sex drive was normal. Regular.

Until now. Her normal, controlled, proper sex drive had blown away like yesterday's newspaper. She was consumed with lust, staring at this giant beast. She felt the desire in her pussy, her nipples, her chest, her stomach. Jesus Christ, her knees were weak.

She had to have it. Her hand tightened, feeling the heat at the base of the shaft, felt the pulse of the beast, and her nipples tightened and hardened in response. She heard whimpering, a plaintive expression of desire, of need. She realized it was her, expressing her own surrender, and she panted in submission. She thought the man was speaking, asking for a decision, calling her name, Ms. Cole, Ms. Cole. She imagined the cock was calling; it called to her, called her by name, suck me Ms. Cole, it said, suck me Ms. Cole, and she heard a hungry grunting breath escape her lungs as her mouth opened, and touched the head, stretching her lips around the velvety crown, feeling the spongy firmness on her tongue, and still stretching, forcing her jaw open until it hurt, and then it was finally inside, and she pushed her head down onto the shaft.

She leaned forward in her chair, barely aware of him opening his pants and undressing as he spoke. "I guess I was right so far," she heard, "and you've made your decision." She reached up with her other hand now, both of them grasping the thick meat, encircling the shaft, while she tried to force the remaining portion into her mouth. "Let's see if I am right about the rest," she heard him tease. She didn't want to tease it and lick it, no. Not this one. Not this dream cock. She pulled her mouth off for just a moment.

"Oh, God, I want this cock," she gasped out loud, grateful for the opportunity to express her desire out loud, and at the same time astounded at the words as they came out. She felt liberated, like a she had been holding in a secret. "I want it in my mouth. I want it to fuck my mouth, to gag me." She stroked the shaft with both hands, unable to let go, oblivious to all things but this throbbing cunt destroyer, her contact with it, her obsession for it; her need. She wondered briefly how she could lose her control so quickly, then forgot that person, the controlled woman, and surrendered to her craving.

He pulled his dick away and her hands flailed in the empty air, desperate to reconnect. Her face inched forward as she leaned in, and he swung it at her, striking her face with it; she felt the impact, and the sensation shot through her, alerting her nipples, and pushing straight through to her clit and her pussy, making her hard and wet. Again he struck her, and she opened her mouth, trying to suck it, knowing she could never capture it. She could only be conquered by it, and she stopped trying to catch it, she held her head still and received the blows on her face, heard the slap of flesh on flesh, felt the heat as it struck her, and she whimpered, "Please," and opened her mouth. "Please," she repeated, opened again, offering her open mouth to the cock that she must have, must serve. "Ple-", she began, but then her wish was granted and it pushed into her open mouth, and she moaned with delight.

It pushed in, and stretched her mouth wide, and still it pushed; it bounced against the back of her mouth, and where she would normally pull back, she gagged, and accepted, and was eager to have more, fulfilled by the punishment. Already her mouth ached, but as the head brutalized the back of her mouth, she inhaled, and it pushed her throat open, blocking her airway, forcing tears to her eyes as her throat tried to close on the massive intruder. Her hands went between her legs to rub her pussy, to thrill at the stimulation she received at serving her new cock master, proud of her submission, her debased achievement. The cock head fucked her mouth a few strokes as she furiously rubbed her crotch through her pants. Then it pulled back, and she gasped for air, her mouth still open, ready for more, eager for more, and proud of the service her mouth provided.

Her grabbed her, his fingers entwined in the hair on either side of her head, and pushed his dick a long stroke into her, fucking her open mouth. "Do you like my cock?" he asked as he withdrew, holding it in front of her lips, angling her head so she must look at him as she answered. She dutifully looked him in the eyes, the sweet promising cockhead brushing her face and lips.

"Oh, yes," the hoarse whisper came out.

"Out loud, Ms. Cole"

"Yes," she obeyed.

"Louder. Like you mean it."

"Yes," she said proudly, with desire.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I like your cock." As she finished the statement he fucked himself into her mouth again. She groaned in delight as the massive shaft filled her mouth, pushed against her throat, gagging her, making her eyes tear, and withdrew. She stole a breath as he spoke, blinking the tears away, delighted at her debauchery.

"Do you love it?"

"M-mm, yeah, I love your beautiful cock." Again he penetrated her mouth, this time a second and third pump into her, then slowly sliding out as he spoke. She opened her eyes to see he held a cell phone, pointing at her.

"Do you want my cock?" Was he recording her? She tried to care, and found she couldn't. All she cared about was getting stuffed by the meat stick poised at her lips. She licked the tip before answering.